Reading novels in Chinese

I have had some realizations in the last month about who I let myself be, and some about who I actually am and what I want.

I have been telling myself that it is too hard, too lonely, too far away to keep living on this side of the world. And I have been feeling maybe not guilty but goaded by some peoples' voices in my mind who ask what's wrong with America?, or my own voices in my mind that whisper I may just be trying to run away from relationships before they get too complicated. That I may not be running towards anything.

But I am. And I have realized that I simply don't want to move back to the US. I want to let my whole being move to this side of the world, and not be standing a mental step back towards Iowa because I know I'm moving 'home' before too long. I want to stay here.

I do miss 'home.' I miss my friends and my family and have dreams about the skies in Iowa. To drive on a highway with radio blasting and see a thunderhead rolling towards me across the plains. Ah.

I have got to stop telling myself that I am afraid, though. I have got to stop being afraid of challenging myself. I have got to stop being afraid to belong. (I know that last sentence is angsty, but it's an honest and dominant fear of mine, I think. So there you have it: I'm angsty.)

One excellent thing I learned last year in China was just to go. Just to read, just to talk. I have been reading novels in Chinese, though I don't understand anything close to everything. I am just reading and getting from it what I can.